A cheap room
Somewhere in the middle of nowhere
To cover
What to cover?
Hide!
We should not be seen
They must not see us
Who?
Why should I hide?
What crime do I commit?
Do you love me?
Of course I love you
I guess this is the crime I am committing!!!
Georgios Rachiotis
Original Version of the poem “Lovers “ written by Georgios Rachiotis for a group of poems named “Still Life”
Εραστές
Ένα φτηνό δωμάτιο
Κάπου στη μέση του πουθενά
Να καλύψει
Τι να καλύψει;
Κρύψου!
Δεν πρέπει να μας δουν
Μη μας δουν
Ποιοι;
Γιατί να κρύβομαι
Τι έγκλημα διαπράττω;
Με αγαπάς;
Και βέβαια σε αγαπώ
Μάλλον αυτό το έγκλημα διαπράττω!!!
Γεώργιος Ραχιώτης Εραστές Από την ποιητική συλλογή με τίτλο “Φύσις Νεκρή”
Georgios Rachiotis is a freelance writer for the past decade as well as a radio producer-presenter and multi-instrumentalist. He is the founder of Literatology and also the Chief Editor and MAnager of it. He likes music, poetry, literature, arts, mythology and all kinds of stories and tales as well as folklore. He also attends courses of History, Literature & Poetry in Universities all over the world.
An era struggling to be saved
From the ashes to be born, that burned everything
An era so immoral
That only succeeds to break down my stomach
Not at all the one I used to know resembled to me
That other was from another era
He had nothing to do with this one
That else did not have hatred
He had Morality
How can he become I?
Georgios Rachiotis
Original Version of the poem “Immorality” written by Georgios Rachiotis for a group of poems named “Still Life”
Ανηθικότητα
Μια εποχή που παλεύει να σωθεί
Από τις στάχτες να γεννηθεί που έκαψαν τα πάντα
Μια εποχή τόσο ανήθικη
Που το μόνο που καταφέρνει είναι να μου χαλάει το στομάχι
Καθόλου δεν μου έμοιαζε εκείνος που γνώρισα τότε
Εκείνος ο άλλος ήταν από άλλη εποχή
Καμία σχέση δεν είχε με αυτή εδώ
Εκείνος ο άλλος δεν είχε μίσος
Είχε Ήθος
Πως μπορεί εκείνος ο άλλος να έγινε εγώ;
Γεώργιος Ραχιώτης Ανηθικότητα Από την ποιητική συλλογή με τίτλο “Φύσις Νεκρή”
Georgios Rachiotis is a freelance writer for the past decade as well as a radio producer-presenter and multi-instrumentalist. He is the founder of Literatology and also the Chief Editor and Manager of it. He likes music, poetry, literature, arts, mythology and all kinds of stories and tales as well as folklore. He also attends courses of History, Literature & Poetry in Universities all over the world.
The era I live in? Shredded
Within tenebrous streets, unfulfilled dreams
Eyes tearful, for yesterday’s faults
You say … do not believe what they want
Live the life you deserve, laugh
Do not weep for whatever hurts you
Only laugh for whatever fills you with joy.
The era that I lived? Dead
Bathed in blood
Like an undertaker who enjoys the Deaths
I remember you were saying … do not wonder of what happens to you
It is a fresh thinking in my mind
A moist image, like the bloodstained soil
Like life, my own life.
The era in which I will live? Does not exist
There is just death, hovering everywhere
A form of power of my thoughts
You tell me not to weep for all of these
I remember it like yesterday that you advised me
Yet there is a glimmer of hope for me to live!
Georgios Rachiotis
Original Version of the poem “Vanity” written by Georgios Rachiotis for a group of poems named “Still Life”
Ματαιοδοξία
Η εποχή που ζω; Κομματιασμένη
Μέσα σε δρόμους σκοτεινούς, ανεκπλήρωτα όνειρά
Μάτια δακρυσμένα για λάθη του χθες
Μου λες…μην πιστεύεις αυτά που θέλουν
Ζήσε τη ζωή που σου αξίζει, να γελάς
Μην κλαις για ό,τι σε πονάει
Μόνο γέλα για ό,τι σε γεμίζει με χαρά.
Η εποχή που έζησα; Νεκρή
Μέσα στο αίμα λουσμένη
Σαν νεκροθάφτης που απολαμβάνει τους θανάτους
Θυμάμαι έλεγες…μην απορείς για ό,τι σου συμβαίνει
Είναι νωπή η σκέψη στο μυαλό μου
Μια εικόνα υγρή, σαν ματωμένο χώμα
Σαν τη ζωή, τη δικιά μου ζωή.
Η εποχή που θα ζήσω; Δεν υπάρχει
Υπάρχει μόνο θάνατος, παντού πλανιέται
Μια μορφή εξουσίας της σκέψης μου
Μην κλαις μου λες για όλα αυτά
Το θυμάμαι σαν χθες που με συμβούλευες
Ακόμα υπάρχει μια μικρή ελπίδα να ζήσω!
Γεώργιος Ραχιώτης Ματαιοδοξία Από την ποιητική συλλογή με τίτλο “Φύσις Νεκρή”
Georgios Rachiotis is a freelance writer for the past decade as well as a radio producer-presenter and multi-instrumentalist. He is the founder of Literatology and also the Chief Editor and Manager of it. He likes music, poetry, literature, arts, mythology and all kinds of stories and tales as well as folklore. He also attends courses of History, Literature & Poetry in Universities all over the world.
There is a distant star
that will not find the Heavens
inside this land’s depths
Within the world’s hustle
It’s lost
and only a few will learn it
Some are born with it
Others respect it
but they both burn
The eleventh commandment
has a humble look
and a cool breeze
You can find it inside the eyes of the poor
as crystal clear glasses
The eleventh commandment
only the crazy feel it
and those who were born
to live like slaves
Alexandra Zevgiti
original verison of the poem “The Eleventh Command” written by Alexandra Zevgiti
Ενδέκατη Εντολή
Είναι αστέρι μακρινό
που δεν θα βρει ουρανό
σ αυτής της γης τα βάθη
Μέσα στου κόσμου τη βουή
μαζί χάνεται κ αυτή
και λίγοι θα τη μάθουν
Κάποιοι γεννιούνται μ αυτή
κάποιοι τη σέβονται πολύ
μα καίγονται κι αυτοί
Η ενδέκατη εντολή
είναι βλέμμα ταπεινό
και δροσερό αγέρι
Τη βλέπεις σε μάτια φτωχικά
σαν ολοκάθαρα γυαλιά
Την ενδεκάτη εντολή
την νιώθουν μόνο οι τρελοί
κι όσοι έχουν γεννηθεί
να ζουν σαν σκλάβοι
Alexandra Zevgiti is studying History and Archaeology in the University of Ioannina. She likes poetry, art & literature and she loves writing short stories and poems. As a member of Literatology she writes articles and short stories as well as some poems.
I ran into that
autumn night
Within the cold of October
Inside my mind
Within the inmost of my soul
Listened to every sound
The leaves that ‘the north wind drags
The Black Rapids Glacier abstract glacier painting by Tatiana Iliina
and sown in the neighborhoods.
So it uprooted with its path
my own leaves.
Three leaves of the heart
One of Pain
One of Eros
and one of Love.
Ioannina
10/09/2014
Michael Moustogiannis
Original Version of the poem “October’s Destructions” written by Michael Moustogiannis
Καταστροφές του Οκτώβρη
Έτρεξα σ’ εκείνη
τη φθινοπωρινή νύχτα
Μέσα στο κρύο του Οκτώβρη
Μέσα στο μυαλό μου
Μέσα στα μύχια της ψυχής μου
Αφουγκράστηκα κάθε ήχο
Τα φύλλα που τα ‘σερνε ο βοριάς
pablo-picasso
και τα ‘σπερνε στις γειτονιές.
Έτσι ξερίζωσε με το διάβα του
και τα δικά μου φύλλα.
Τρία φύλλα της καρδιάς
Ένα του Πόνου
Ένα του Έρωτα
κι ένα της Αγάπης.
Εν Ιωαννίνοις
9/10/2014
Μιχαήλ Μουστόγιαννης
Michael Moustogiannis is a student at the Faculty of Philosophy of the University of Ioannina. Born and raised in the heart of the Peloponnese, and in particular Tripoli Arcadias. From a very young age he was depressed in writing and reading poetry and literature.He is one of the first members of the Literatology team and he is contributing either his own poems and stories or even many articles that he loves to write.
The way that I’m walking
Alone and afraid
Is not full of roses
Is not how they said
The truth has been waiting
For me all these years
I stood there and waited
With so many fears
My cries are still burning
My pale sickened face
My heartbeats are praying
To put just an end
I screamed and I begged me
To see far beyond
This future that took me
To walk to the shore
I lived and I died
So many years ago
I loved and I cried
For not been loved
Could someone just tell me
How is it to live
Without her by my side
How is it with it
Could someone forgive me
For being so weak
Could someone just give me
The life to live in
Georgios Rachiotis
Georgios Rachiotis is a freelance writer for the past decade as well as a radio producer-presenter and multi-instrumentalist. He is the founder of Literatology and also the Chief Editor and MAnager of it. He likes music, poetry, literature, arts, mythology and all kinds of stories and tales as well as folklore. He also attends courses of History, Literature & Poetry in Universities all over the world.
The leaves rustle
in the gentle touch
of the wind,,
and your figure there.
Among the whispers
of the night and
the moonlight.
I am listening the wind
talking for you,
for your life.
I take a deep
breath. I feel you
everywhere, inside me.
Isolation’ by Tibor Simon-Mazula, oil on canvas
The way you smell,
numbs my sore
mind. Everything
ends there.
At the point where
the mirrors of
our souls meet
and the one feels
the loss of the other.
And then darkness, silence,
isolation
And me? I gaze at
our dreams from
the without windows cell
of your prison.
Nikoleta Vemvetsou
Original version of the poem “Isolated” written by Nikoleta Vemvetsou
Τα φύλλα θροΐζουν
στο απαλό άγγιγμα
του ανέμου,,
και η μορφή σου εκεί.
Ανάμεσα στους ψιθύρους
της νύχτας και στο
φως της σελήνης.
Ακούω τον αέρα
μου μιλάει για σένα,
για τη ζωή σου.
Παίρνω μια βαθιά
ανάσα. Σε νιώθω
παντού, μέσα μου.
Η μυρωδιά σου,
ναρκώνει το πονεμένο
μου μυαλό. Όλα
τελειώνουν εκεί.
Στο σημείο, όπου
οι καθρέφτες των
ψυχών μας συναντιούνται
κι ο ένας νιώθει
την απώλεια του άλλου.
Μετά σκοτάδι, σιωπή,
απομάκρυνση.
Κι εγώ να αγναντεύω
τα όνειρά μας από το
δίχως παράθυρα κελί
της φυλακής σου.
Nikoleta Vemvetsou is 19 years old and she is currently studying History & Archaeology in the University of Ioannina, which was a childhood’s dream as she recalls. She writes articles on various topics including history, arcaeology, literature, poetry and more, in many blogs, newspapers and magazines as well as her own poetry. She is the co-founder of Literatology and also a co-chief editor of the Literatology team.
There are some things in life that cannot be described. Despite how much you try, in the end you will say that “I missed this” or «I missed that” and you will try writing down again and again the same thing by trying to add all those information that you have forgotten to mention.
Edgar Allan Poe is such a “thing”. A great poet to some, a greater storywriter for another, but amongst all a fabulous personality. An awesome personality that you will always forget to mention things in almost every article you’ll try to write about him.
E. A. Poe was born on January 19th, 1809 in Boston, Massachusetts and died on October 7th, 1849 after he was found on the streets of Baltimore, Maryland and taken to the Washington Medical College. Even though he is considered as a poet, E. A. Poe was a literary critic, an author as well as an editor.
Most of us got to know E. A. Poe by his poems, especially by his “The
Raven” poem. But we have to know that E. A. Poe was best known for his tales. All the mystery and macabre tales that he wrote during his whole life – and to tell the truth are magnificent at least.
He is also considered to be the beginner of a new literature genre which was later named “Mystery & Detective Fiction”. Apart from all of the above mentioned, it is of great interest to say that E. A. Poe was a part of the Romantic Movement that occurred in America by the time of his life.
His early life was a disastrous one as his father left the family in 1810, when Edgar was 1 years old, and his mother died on 1811. Although he was never adopted formally, he passed his first years, until his adulthood, with John and Frances Allan. Due to financial problems and tensions between Edgar and John, young Edgar never attended a secondary education (he only attended one semester at the University of Virginia).
One other thing that we may miss about Poe‘s life, is his military service in the United States Army and this is due to the name that he used in his military career. Edgar Alan Perry was that name and by the time that he enlisted in an army service he claimed to be 22 years old although he was just 18. After gaining the highest rank he could achieve, he finally left the Army on April 15th, 1829 after 2 years of military service.
By that time he had already published “Tamerlane and Other Poems”, a collection of poems in 40 pages – he signed that book not by his name but with the byline “By a Bostonian” – and received no attention at all.
His second attempt of publishing poetry was by the “Al Aaraaf, Tamerlane and Minor Poems” in 1829 and in 1831 he publishes his third book by the simple title “Poems”, which was founded by his former army fellow’s.
E. A. Poe is one of the first Americans known for his try to make a living out of his writings only. He attempted poetry, but after his first, not so successful attempts, he turned his complete attention to writing prose.After publishing some of his short stories with a Philadelphia publication, he began working on his own and only drama. Its title was “Politian”.
“Politian” was composed in 1835 but never completed. It is based on the true story of the murder of Solomon P. Sharp by Jereboam O. Beauchamp in Kentucky in 1825.
“MS. Found in a Bottle”, a short story, Poewrote, was his first prize awarded story by the Baltimore Saturday Visiter. “MS. Found in a Bottle” is a story written in 1833 and its plot is about a storyteller, that remains anonymous, though, and that he finds himself at sea into a chain of dreadful situations.
After the story draw the attention of John P. Kennedy, Poe was presented to Thomas M. White and became the assistant editor of the Southern Literary Messenger, that Thomas White was the editor, in Richmond. He was discharged, though two weeks later, after his boss found him drunk.
In the same year E. A. Poe returned to Baltimore and on the 22nd of December he married his cousin Virginia in secret. He was 13 years older than her. She was only 13 years old, although in their wedding documentation she is listed to be 21. Virginia Clemm was meant to be his public wife after he returned to the Southern Literary Messenger (reinstated by White once again with the promise of good behavior), as he married her in Richmond on the 16th of May 1836. From 1835 to 1837, he stayed in the magazine, increased its selling numbers (from 700 to 3500) and published several poems, stories, book reviews and criticisms.
In 1838, Poe writes and publishes his first and only complete novel. Its title was “The Narrative of Arthur Gordon Pym of Nantucket” and its plot is about a young man, named Arthur Gordon Pym and his adventures during his sea travels. The novel was published in July of 1838, but many previously footage of the novel was published in the Southern Literary Messenger. After the publication of the novel, Poe found himself as the assistant editor of another magazine. The Burton’s Gentleman’s Magazine, a literary magazine in Philadelphia, where essays, stories, poems and articles were published. E. A. Poe published a lot of poems, articles, reviews as well as critiques in the Burton’s Magazine, launching and increasing his status as an incisive critic he had previously gained.
“Tales of the Grotesque and Arabesque”, a collection of Poe’s previously published short stories, was also published the same year (1839). Again after this publication Poe found himself in a different magazine. Graham’s Magazine was this time, and again he was the assistant.
The Stylus was meant to be Poe’s own Journal (originally named The Penn, as it was meant to be based in Pennsylvania), but was never released (only after his death), although he had already bought promotion space in the Saturday Evening Post (issue June 6, 1840) for his “Prospectus of the Penn Magazine, a Monthly Literary journal to be edited and published in the city of Philadelphia by Edgar A. Poe.”
In January 1942, Virginia got ill and Poe began to drink even more than he used to, under the worry of Virginia’s sickness. At this time, he settled back to New York, and after working for a short time at the Evening Mirror, he found an editor position at the Broadway Journal, which later owned. On January 3rd, 1846, the Broadway Journal published its last issue with the following written by E. A. Poe: Unsuspected engagements demanding my whole attention, and the objects being unfulfilled so far as regards myself personally, for which the Broadway Journal was established, I now, as its editor, bid farewell – as cordially to foes as to friends. -Edgar A. Poe ( Sova, Dawn B. Edgar Allan Poe: A to Z. New York: Checkmark Books, 2001: 34. ISBN 0-8160-4161-X)
After the death of Virginia on January 30th 1847, and after Poe’s two more publications – “The Raven” which appeared in the Evening Mirror and in The American Review: A Whig Journal under the pseudonym “Quarles” – Poe tried his luck with women two more times. The first was with the poet Sarah Helen Whitman (January 19, 1803 – June 27, 1878) and the second with his childhood love Sarah Elmira Royster.
E. A. Poe died on October 3rd, 1849. His Gothic and Dark Romantic poems and stories will keep on living though in his beloved readers’ minds, hearts and souls.
The Raven
Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore—
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
“‘Tis some visiter,” I muttered, “tapping at my chamber door—
Only this and nothing more.”
Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December;
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow;—vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow—sorrow for the lost Lenore—
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore—
Nameless here for evermore.
And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me—filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating
“‘Tis some visiter entreating entrance at my chamber door—
Some late visiter entreating entrance at my chamber door;—
This it is and nothing more.”
Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
“Sir,” said I, “or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you”—here I opened wide the door;—
Darkness there and nothing more.
Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;
But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, “Lenore?”
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, “Lenore!”—
Merely this and nothing more.
Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.
“Surely,” said I, “surely that is something at my window lattice;
Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore—
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;—
‘Tis the wind and nothing more!”
Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore;
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door—
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door—
Perched, and sat, and nothing more.
Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,
“Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,” I said, “art sure no craven,
Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the Nightly shore—
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night’s Plutonian shore!”
Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”
Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning—little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door—
Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
With such name as “Nevermore.”
But the Raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing farther then he uttered—not a feather then he fluttered—
Till I scarcely more than muttered “Other friends have flown before—
On the morrow he will leave me, as my Hopes have flown before.”
Then the bird said “Nevermore.”
Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
“Doubtless,” said I, “what it utters is its only stock and store
Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster
Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore—
Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore
Of ‘Never—nevermore’.”
But the Raven still beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and door;
Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore—
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore
Meant in croaking “Nevermore.”
This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom’s core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On the cushion’s velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o’er,
But whose velvet-violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o’er,
She shall press, ah, nevermore!
Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.
“Wretch,” I cried, “thy God hath lent thee—by these angels he hath sent thee
Respite—respite and nepenthe, from thy memories of Lenore;
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!”
Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”
“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!—
Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted—
On this home by Horror haunted—tell me truly, I implore—
Is there—is there balm in Gilead?—tell me—tell me, I implore!”
Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”
“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!
By that Heaven that bends above us—by that God we both adore—
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore—
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore.”
Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”
“Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!” I shrieked, upstarting—
“Get thee back into the tempest and the Night’s Plutonian shore!
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken!—quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!”
Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”
And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon’s that is dreaming,
And the lamp-light o’er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted—nevermore!
—Edgar Allan Poe
(Edgar Allan Poe Society of Baltimore – Works – Poems – The Raven”. Edgar Allan Poe Society of Baltimore. December 28, 2007.)
By Georgios Rachiotis
Georgios Rachiotis is a freelance writer for the past decade as well as a radio producer-presenter and multi-instrumentalist. He is the founder of Literatology and also the Chief Editor and MAnager of it. He likes music, poetry, literature, arts, mythology and all kinds of stories and tales as well as folklore. He also attends courses of History, Literature & Poetry in Universities all over the world.
She was lost
Torn apart
Full but yet all empty
Two men inside her mind
Two lives convoluted
Was it of what she chose?
or maybe not?
It was fate that played
this game
in her life?
Two strong emotions
the first was simple a habit
and the other a need
the first was holding her steady
and the other was traveling her thoughts
in dark places
there
where the mind of people travels
seeking for the source of life
the light that will illuminate
the darkness of the soul
And there is the time that feelings come to fight
an eternal struggle
daily
alive
It is Love that will win
or Eros?
Ioannina
10/17/2014
Michael Moustogiannis
Original Version of the poem “Aion Struggle (Love or Eros)” written by Michael Moustogiannis
Αιώνα Πάλη
(Αγάπη ή Έρωτας)
Βρέθηκε ανάμεσα
Διχασμένη
Γεμάτη μα συνάμα άδεια απ’ όλα
Δυο άντρες στο μυαλό της
Δυο ζωές μπερδεμένες
Ήταν αυτό που διάλεξε
ή μήπως όχι;
Ήταν η μοίρα που έπαιξε
αυτό το παιχνίδι
στη ζωή της;
Ήταν δυο συναισθήματα δυνατά
το ένα έγινε απλή συνήθεια
και το άλλο ανάγκη
το ένα την κρατούσε στάσιμη
και το άλλο την ταξίδευε
σε σκοτεινά μέρη
εκεί
που το μυαλό του ανθρώπου φεύγει
που ψάχνει την πηγή της ζωής
το φως που θα φωτίσει
το σκότος της ψυχής
Κι έρχονται τα συναισθήματα να παλέψουν
μια πάλη αιώνια
καθημερινή
ζωντανή
Είναι η Αγάπη που θα νικήσει
ή ο Έρωτας;
Εν Ιωαννίνοις
17/10/2014
Μιχαήλ Μουστόγιαννης
Michael Moustogiannis is a student at the Faculty of Philosophy of the University of Ioannina. Born and raised in the heart of the Peloponnese, and in particular Tripoli Arcadias. From a very young age he was depressed in writing and reading poetry and literature.He is one of the first members of the Literatology team and he is contributing either his own poems and stories or even many articles that he loves to write.
17th of October.
Looking at the date, it didn’t take less than two minutes to recall in my memory a delightful thought. It is the same memory, the one that overwhelms you after the closer contact with a good literature book.
160 years and a day.
I always remembered the order that the perfectly placed worlds were existing in me, the well-kept books, the impulsive writing, and the sincere pen. And again when I think about all that, I think of Oscar Wilde. There is no one wiser to show you the paths of oration but from a true virtuoso. During this week there have passed almost 160 years from the day that he saw the daylight for the first time. All those years, literature still exists between the shine of the real stars, but it is for sure that it still remembers an intransigent poetic soul.
The biggest mistake of all is cursoriness.
A person that loves the others and the words, someone that his compassion and life fill the whole world, the one who talks for the good and fills it up, the one who talks about the obscene and atonements it, he is the one who is able to write and create in our minds with colors that won’t come off, in the most secret corners of our mind. I have been imagining the poets always like that. Like short relief days, like bitter ships of a good coffee, to show in that way the essence of life: enjoyable but difficult. I used to imagine of those people to create the soul sections. Simple, with no exaggeration. That is what I remember from Oscar Wilde. Such a big wisdom so obvious that only needed a few words to be expressed. A few words to be written and a few to see, in order to be convinced that the art is the world’s balm. A few words that the mind can recall for many years, by leaving a sense of music, rhythm and… love.
Wilde is talking passionately, lives inappropriate and follows the destiny. He doesn’t seem to care for more neither for less. Someone who does not have a limit, an extraordinary balance of contrasts. Usually exaggerative, deceitful, dreamful, but always passionate and fair Wilde leaves to his readers-lovers soul messages. He places us into the way of living a prodigal life, and his learning it to us from the inside. He always writes more than the one that we expect, writes for himself and for us, he is keeping the world in his hands. He takes the life and step her into the sin and mistakes, like he is showing in that way, the most certain path to follow, destroying in the same time whatever is considered bad, and exists in a human’s mind.
Wilde is still writing and inspiring people, to our era. Always desirable and within our era, forgives and gets forgiven. He leaves you to open his life and the only thing that keeps outside of this is cursoriness.
He claimed sometime that he is the very end of all mistakes. He believes in the human being, that is why he refuses to accept the close-minded people. But even those, he is trying to excuse them in a way. He is far beyond his own era, and he is the one who is showing the way to freedom, for all these who are just seeking for a touch in order to go further in their lives. He believes that whatever we understand is for a good reason. He replaces us within the world of books, in the most physical place that a human could own, he confess us like beings that are able to feel and communicate. He calls us, in order to be better, and makes clear a strict rule: the part of the brain that is able to remember is not responsible for the sinful life that we choose to follow. In many cases it is actually happening the opposite thing. Our feelings are not guilty, they just are small combinations in order to co-exist. They are the only connections that are guiding us towards the inner. We have the need to grasp the waves the cowardliness and the people that happen to cross the path of our lives. It is them who draw the picture of our lives before we breathe into them the breath of life!
He is re-born every year more unconventional, more soulful, and born of each new delight!
by Rafaela Maneli
Rafaela Maneli is studying Communication and MEDIA at the University of Athens, she loves writing and reading books by a very young age. It is above all an instrument of psychotherapy and contact as she usually says. She has participated and won the national competition of poetry of the Hellenic Literature Union and as she grows up she is trying to write as much as possible. ..
Literatology 
